


Things to comfort them are there

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Morse is crying.
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	Things to comfort them are there

**Author's Note:**

> A short h/c post to get my obsessive-compulsive backside in gear, after getting a pep-talk from my stepbrother ('stop feeling sorry for yourself and set some goals.') This may well turn out to be part of a multi-fandom collection. The title is, as ever, inspired by Housman.

* * *

Morse is crying.

Max watches him, in the doorway of the kitchen; watches the way he stumbles around his space, trembling from tap to counter and back again, _it’s okay Max, it’s my turn, I’ll make the coffee_. He’s a bit of a sight in his vest and shorts, Max’s spare dressing-gown hanging from his shoulders and he’s _trembling,_ sniffing quietly to himself and Max can only hum a little, sympathetic – steps into the kitchen properly.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks the hunched shape of Morse’s back; gets a breathless, vague ‘Yeah,’ tossed his way. Max raises his eyebrows and slowly, carefully, reaches out with a hand, lays his palm carefully and gently against Morse’s back; it doesn’t make the other man jump as much as stop, straightening up at the touch, as though Max’s hand has pressed some sort of button, or a necessary string-pull to pause him in his tracks. A ridiculous thought, of course, but it seems to fit. He sniffles a little, hiding it behind a cough as he turns around, tentative; looking almost like a kitten, or a stray cat.

The analogy is not _too_ dissimilar, Max considers sadly, taking him in in his entirety even as he fastens his hands carefully to Morse’s elbows, half-expecting him to flee and watching him all the while; he’s a dreadful fright altogether, all rumpled hair and wide, wounded eyes and Max can’t help but reach across to straighten the dressing-gown, pulls it more securely up and over Morse’s shoulders – self-care doesn’t seem to be a valid or even rational concept with Morse right about now. The sergeant watches him dumbly, eyes falling to the ground, his blue eyes dimmed, even damaged by dampness and looking just a little lost altogether, even ensconced as he is between Max’s hands; not _alarmed_ , per se, but most likely not expecting such a simple kindness just then, either.

(But then Morse, like any fierce, misguided, but ultimately goodhearted stray, has a way of burrowing himself into the hearts of both civilians – and pathologists – alike).

 _‘Easily, the gentle air,’_ Max intones softly, _‘wafts the turning season on.’_ He smiles a little, unable to be anything else but sympathetic, keeping a hand on Morse’s arm, rubbing the fabric with his thumb. Quietly, he watches Morse’s face crumble, head bowing forward; a slim, shaking hand rising up to muss his hair anew and he looks so _broken,_ so exposed, hushed little gasps pushing their way through his lips.

Then he crumples; straight into Max’s waiting arms as the doctor wraps them right around him with a soft, shushing sound. This is where the height difference becomes _slightly_ irritating, he considers distractedly; has to settle for simple murmurs in the general direction of up as Morse’s arms wrap themselves almost blindly around his shoulders in turn, holding on for what feels quite literally close to dear life, sobbing and shaking all the while, a complete mess.

At least he can be a human-pillar, he thinks with a trace of irony, even as he keeps up a steady stream of soft comfort.

‘It’s alright,’ he soothes, as Morse’s sobs fill his kitchen, shuddering all the while with it and utterly heart-breaking to boot, ‘that’s it, you’re alright, you’re alright, I’ve got you. You’re alright.’ He feels Morse shake his head above him and holds on tight – knows, all too well, the singularity of the other man; learnt a few years ago that he lost his mother young, an extremely painful thought in and out of itself and he stays very firmly put, lets Morse lean against him and cry, and cry, and cry.

Later, he sits beside him on the sofa, hands him a handkerchief along with a brandy that the sergeant drains with one gulp, swollen eyes grimacing at the strong strain even as he attempts to get himself under some form of control, leaning forward in his seat, almost twitching away from Max in something close to embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry.’ He coughs wetly, voice feeble, wiping his nose. He’s still a wreck, but a less empty one; as though he’s sobbed everything out, has absolutely nothing left to give.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ Max tells him firmly; Morse smiles, a shaky wobble; dries his eyes, blows his nose, looking more than a little bit sheepish and rather like he’s collapsed into himself – Max doesn’t comment, simply rubbing his back with care.

‘You aren’t alone, old fellow,’ he tells him quietly and Morse huffs, his blotched face salty with his own pain and Max simply sits with him awhile, watches him pull himself back together, as loyal as any new vow.

*


End file.
